Selma's George

Ten or twelve years ago MJ and I visited a strange little house in the Columbia City neighborhood of Seattle.  A friend gave us the reference.  Maybe we could sell some paintings for the woman who lived there, forget most of the details, chilly day in late winter high clouds no rain.  Knocked on the front door.  Not sure what we expected to find, maybe a few canvases from a senior center painting class?    

Rickety steps dilapidated front stoop door opens and it's as if we stepped into the Tardis.  Rooms filled huge bright paintings, had to scooch sideways past the stacks - frail woman of some uncertain age had spent fifty years layering her rage over rape as a weapon of terror onto those canvases.  

Like having tea with Mozart or the Doctor.  She occupied only a tiny space in the kitchen tea kettle and corner of the table under a south-facing curtainless window,  painting studio across the way just enough room to stand in front of a canvas. The rest of the house stacked with the paintings. Powerful.  Out of our league as far as marketing goes, nevertheless one of the high lights of our junking career.  

We heard she passed a few months later,  we never heard what happened to the paintings.